***
The next morning, Willoughby woke up to singing.
He put on his greatcoat and poked his head out of the dugout. The trench walls glittered with frost. Men stamped their feet and kept their hands in their pockets, their breath coming out in white plumes. Three red-nosed men stood nearby singing “Jingle Bells” and holding mugs of what obviously wasn’t tea. Black strolled by and Willoughby grabbed him.
“What happened to stand to?” Willoughby asked.
“You slept through it.”
“You should have woken me. Captain Kaiser will have me in irons!”
“Special order from the major. Consider it a Christmas present.”
“Christmas? Oh, right.”
Black extended a hand, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Willoughby replied, shaking it.
“Come on, you missed breakfast too, but we saved you some. Fisher got a spirit stove from home. We can test it out reheating your tea.”
They found their circle of friends in the next fire bay huddled around Fisher’s new spirit stove. Everyone greeted him and passed him a cup of tea.
“Plenty for everyone,” Fisher said. “The captain made himself useful for once and came back with extra.”
As Willoughby took a steaming cup, Crawford leaned over and tipped his flask over it.
“A bit early, isn’t it?” Willoughby chuckled.
“No it isn’t,” Crawford said. “So where’s my present?”
“I’ll go back and get my pack.”
“Nonsense,” Crawford said, and turning to one of the new men shouted, “You, whatsyourname, go get the sergeant’s pack!”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, scuttling off.
“You have them eating out of your hand.”
“A tot of rum and a boot to the rear and they all dance to my tune. Carrot and stick method, it’s called.”
“You’ll make general one day.”
“Jesus Christ, no!” Crawford said in mock terror. “Oh, we have something for you. While you were drinking pints and watching the cricket back home, we managed to have some laughs too. We got a whole week rest period in Gay Paree. Ah, you should have been there! Wine, women, song, women. Did I say women twice? Well, never mind. One day at a kiosk I saw these and thought of you. Here’s your gift,” Crawford said as he handed him a thin envelope.
“Demobilization papers?” Willoughby asked.
“You wish!” Crawford laughed.
Fisher got up from the circle and walked away grumbling.
“Never mind him, open it,” Crawford said.
Willoughby opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of photos. The first was of a French woman with one leg on a chair and her skirts hiked up. As the circle of men snickered, Willoughby shuffled through the photos and found they were all of a similar nature.
“I’ll. . .treasure these.”
“Just don’t treasure them in the dugout,” Black said. “I don’t want to get hit by a stray!”
“This is what I missed while I was on sick leave—the refined conversation, the highbrow intellectual rigor of the trenches.”
“Oi, don’t you like my gift?”
Willoughby pulled out a picture of a nude dancer with breasts bigger than her head.
“Well. . .”
“And that’s only the first part of the gift,” Crawford said. “The lads felt bad that you were missing out on the fun—”
“Michelle, sweet Michelle,” Black sighed.
“Especially her. So we decided that we would treat you next time we’re in Paris. We’ll all pitch in. Otherwise you might as well convert to Catholicism and become a monk. You’ll never get a tumble on your own.”
“We agreed to pitch in? I don’t remember that,” Hedges said. His face was already red, and not from the cold.
“You were drunk.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Of course I was. We were in Paris, you bloody idiot.”
The private returned with his pack and Willoughby quickly changed the subject by presenting the gifts he had brought.
“Aha! The hour of reckoning is at hand!” Black said.
“Which reminds me, I have something for Fisher. Hello, Fisher! Come back. They’re done being boors and it’s time to get your gift.”
Willoughby handed out packages to all his friends—socks, gloves, cigarettes, chocolates, all the little things they needed and the Army didn’t provide, or didn’t provide in sufficient quality or quantity. He saved Crawford for last. Out of the corner of his eye he could see him shifting impatiently like a child. Finally Willoughby handed him a large, soft package wrapped in paper.
Crawford tore it open and pulled out a hand-knit sweater.
“Oi, this is tops, mate. Just what I needed. Hey, perfect size too. Cheers.”
“It’s not from me, read the note attached.”
“Not from you?” Crawford asked as he pulled out a little envelope from the shredded wrapping.
“It’s from my sister.”
“Ooooooh!” all the men rolled their eyes.
“You mean Sarah? Eighteen years old and still unmarried. Glad to have her knitting for me.”
“No, it’s from Betsy, my younger sister. She’s ten so she’s too young for you in addition to being too good for you.”
“There’s the pity, but it’s a nice sweater in any case.”
“Well, read the note,” Black said.
“Give him a moment, he’s not good at such things,” Willoughby said.
“Watch it,” Crawford said, and held up the note to the light.
Dear Mr. Crawford—Mister, that’s a laugh!—My brother says you don’t get any packages from home so I knitted you this sweater. It took me six weeks to finish for I do not have much time between school and helping out with the Girl Guides baking biscuits for the men at the front. Hugh got your measurements and sent them to me just before he was hit. Do take care of him and make sure he is careful. He’s awfully silly at times—bloody right!—and is liable to get hurt again. Please send me your foot size so I can knit you some socks next. And do write me if you want to hear from England I am happy to write you. There is a tin of Girl Guide biscuits in Hugh’s pack for you as well. I know you will share them with the men. Hugh says you only pretend to be selfish. Take care and write me and don’t forget to tell me your sock size. Merry Christmas, Betsy Willoughby.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. Crawford passed a hand over his eyes, muttered something Willoughby didn’t catch, and walked away. Briefly Willoughby wondered if he should follow him and decided against it. Part of friendship is knowing when not to be there.
The distant sound of singing caught his ear. The others heard it too and perked up. It was coming across No Man’s Land.
“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter!
Du grünst nicht nur zur
Sommerzeit,
Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es
schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter!”
Willoughby’s heart lightened and he stood up.
“That sounds like ‘O Christmas Tree’,” Black said.
“That’s because it is,” Willoughby said. He stepped over to the parapet and, while taking care not to put his head into view, cupped his hands around his mouth and sang out in a loud voice,
“O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree!
How are thy leaves so verdant!
Not only in the summertime, But even in winter is thy prime.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
How are thy leaves so verdant!”
“Oi, you sound like a strangled cat,” Black laughed.
“Can you do better?” Willoughby asked with a grin.
Black stood up beside him and belted out in a surprisingly sweet voice,
“O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Much pleasure dost thou bring m
e!
For ev’ry year the Christmas tree, Brings to us all both joy and glee.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Much pleasure dost thou bring me!”
A reply came from over the parapet.
“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!
Wie oft hat nicht zur Weihnachtszeit
Ein Baum von dir mich hoch erfreut!
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!
Willoughby and Black smiled at each other and sang out together,
“O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree—”
“What’s all this!” Captain Dickson stormed down the trench. “Stop that singing this instant!”
“We’re just singing carols, sir,” Black said.
“You’re consorting with the enemy, and if you do it again I’ll have you up on charges.”
“Verpiss dich, Miststück!”
The captain looked uncertainly at the parapet. Willoughby coughed in order to hide his laughter. He turned as Fisher began to sing in a soft voice.
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace”
Fisher looked up at the captain. “Germans can’t hear if I sing this low, sir.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. He grunted and stalked away. As soon as he was around the corner Fisher started again in a loud, clear voice.
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace”
Willoughby looked on in wonder. Fisher never broke the rules.
An answer came over No Man’s Land.
“Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht,
Nur das traute heilige Paar,
Holder Knab im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!”
Fisher continued onto the next verse, and out past the wire the German sang in his own language, but in unison.
Other men in both trenches joined in. After another couple of lines Willoughby did too. Captain Dickson came storming around the corner with Major Thompson just behind. Everyone sang louder.
The captain started shouting for them to stop but cut off short as Major Thompson put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Willoughby couldn’t hear what the major said over his own singing, but the captain objected loudly, face going red. Thompson glared at him and barked something back. The captain stiffened and snapped out a salute before beating a hasty retreat.
Willoughby and several others missed the next verse as they snickered. Thompson rarely pulled rank on a subordinate unless it was some slothful quartermaster who was responsible for not feeding the men on time. To see him do it to his second-in-command was a Christmas present to be cherished.
The song finished, replaced with a hush. Men looked at each other. Thompson had a strange look in his eye, a mixture of pride and deep sadness.
“Kameraden!”
Private Black went to the periscope and looked through.
“Blimey! Would you look at that?”
Thompson went over and looked through the eyepiece.
“They have a Christmas tree over there,” he said with a smile.
Everyone rushed to the parapet. Some crowded around the periscope. A few men poked their heads above the parapet. Willoughby grabbed the nearest one and pulled him back.
“Keep down, you fool!”
“It’s all right, sergeant!” a man further down the line said. His had his head and shoulders fully exposed. He wasn’t the only one.
“Get down, that’s an order!” Thompson said.
The men crouched down. Someone produced another periscope and Willoughby looked through it. Sure enough, a small Christmas tree, complete with tinsel and a little angel on top, was poking up over the German lines, not far from the Maxim gun.
Their machine gun looked strange. Willoughby squinted and realized there was mistletoe stuck in the barrel.
The Germans started singing again, this time a carol nobody recognized. That it was a carol wasn’t in question. It had that joyous, pure air to it, that sound of a well-remembered song from childhood for which everyone knows the words.
The soldiers in the British trench stood still and listened. After the Germans were done, Willoughby heard Crawford’s voice ring out.
“Hey, Huns! Merry Christmas!”
A heavily accented response came from the other side of the wire. “Merry Christmas to you too, Tommy!”
“Oi, someone speaks English over there,” Crawford laughed. “Hey, Hun! The name’s Crawford! We’re not all named Tommy you know.”
“My name is Hans! Merry Christmas to you too, Crawford.”
Crawford hoisted himself up on the parapet, exposing the top half of his body. He was wearing the sweater Betsy had knitted him.
Willoughby hurried over to him.
“What in blazes are you doing?”
“It’s Christmas. The Hun isn’t going to shoot.”
“You’re going to take that on faith?” Willoughby pulled at him. Crawford was much stronger and stayed where he was.
“Got any beer over there, Hans?” Crawford called out.
“Ja. You have any Scotch whiskey?”
Willoughby peeked over the parapet. Three German soldiers were sitting on their own parapet, fully visible to the British line.
Not far from him, Willoughby heard the muttered line, “This is too good an opportunity to miss.”
He spun around and saw a British soldier take aim with his rifle. Willoughby slapped the man upside the head.
“Put down that rifle, that’s an order!” he said in a harsh whisper.
The man gaped at him.
“Since when don’t we shoot at Huns?”
“Since right now.”
The man’s face turned red. “I lost a good pal just last week and you’re telling me—”
“That’s enough, private,” Thompson’s voice sounded behind them. “Do as you’re ordered and put down your rifle.”
The man stared at the major in amazement, but did as he was told.
Major Thompson’s tone softened. “If you had fired, what do you think would have happened to Crawford? Is that the way you want to spend Christmas?”
The man hung his head. “No, sir.”
Willoughby watched all this with a growing fascination. A queer feeling came over him, strengthened by a sudden resolve. He grasped the wooden support post on the trench wall and hauled himself over the parapet.
No Man’s Land and the German trench came into view. A half dozen Germans were visible poking their heads or upper bodies above their own defense. It seemed closer than before. The earth bit into his knees as he got atop the parapet.
He stood up in full view of the enemy line, letting out a gust of breath as he did so.
The Germans stared openmouthed. He turned and looked back at his pals down in the trench, all those astonished faces looking up at him, Major Thompson too stunned to even shout.
How small they look. This is why I do this. Back home I’m small. Here I’m a giant. In Oxford I wilted at the sight of a pub lout, while here I can face a horde of the enemy and strike them down.
He turned back to the German trench.
No striking them down today.
He spread out his hands, palms toward the Germans, and took a few steps forward.
“Sehr gut, kamarade!” one of them shouted.
He and a couple of others clambered out of the trench and paused, looking back at their trench and probably thinking the same things he had. Like Thompson, whoever th
e commander was over there was either too surprised or too impressed to object.
“Oi, where you think you’re going?”
Crawford was out of the trench and hurrying up to him.
“Bit more roomy up here, innit?” he said as he came up. His face was pale, eyes wide, and there was a broad, nervous smile across his face.
“Glad to see you didn’t bring your gun,” Willoughby said.
“What, you think I’m an idiot?”
“Don’t make me answer that. Let’s go meet them halfway, shall we?”
They started walking slowly across No Man’s Land, a place where men only crawl or run. The ground was pitted with shell craters and strewn with the trash of two armies. Rusting weapons and discarded bits of kit lay everywhere. The low humps of the dead were mingled with the debris. The ground was rough and frozen. They had to watch their step.
“This is mad,” Crawford said, shaking his head in wonder.
“No madder than everything else we’ve been through in the past four months.”
Several Germans were walking towards them. They, too, had left their rifles behind. Willoughby glanced over his shoulder and saw a few more English soldiers climbing out of the trench.
“You don’t have that Moroccan knife under your greatcoat, do you?” Crawford asked in a low voice.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
“Just don’t flash it around. They might get tetchy.”
Willoughby gulped. No, he wouldn’t flash it around, or this whole thing would end badly. He was amazed it hadn’t already.
A couple of the Germans came up to them, waving and smiling.
“Merry Christmas, Tommy!” one said in German.
“Merry Christmas to you too,” Willoughby replied.
The fellow had an amazed, slightly stunned look to his face, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Willoughby felt the same.
For a moment everyone fell into silent smiles and shy looks. One of the Germans extended his hand and said in English, “My name is Hans.”
“Pleased to meet you, Hans,” Willoughby said, shaking it.
Crawford grinned and pointed to a small barrel a little larger than a football hanging from a strap around Hans’ shoulder.
“Oi, is that what I think it is?”
“You must be Crawford,” the man said with a grin. “Yes, this is some good German beer from my hometown of Stuttgart.”
“Then I’m pleased to meet you, Hans,” Crawford took his hand and pumped it. “Hey, Willoughby, you got the bottle?”
Willoughby was already pulling it out of the pocket of his greatcoat. Just as he did so, he realized that he had made what could have been construed as a hostile move. The two Germans had watched his hand, but didn’t seem unduly alarmed.
This is actually happening, his sense of wonder growing every minute.
He held up the bottle of Scotch.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Don’t mind if we do.”
A few more British and Germans started gathering. About a hundred yards away, another group was gathering.
“Did anyone bring their cups?” Willoughby asked.
Blank faces all around. Hans repeated the question in German and got a similar response. Willoughby shrugged.
“Fuck it.”
Willoughby popped off the cork and took a slug. The Scotch bit at his throat, then spread a warmth through his insides.
He offered it to Hans, who took a slug and gave it to Crawford. As the bottle went around, the little barrel of beer starting going around too.
I’ve never been drunk before noon. I suppose this is as good a time as any.
Already the alcohol was giving him a pleasant haze. Everyone was chatting in two languages regardless of whether they understood it or not. Crawford and Hans were laughing about some joke he didn’t catch. A few others were trading cigarettes. The other group a hundred yards away had linked arms and were singing carols.
Through the crowd of smiling faces he saw another group of Germans clamber out of their trench. One was an older man with a large handlebar moustache and the strict military air of a career soldier, as well as the proud bearing of an aristocrat. Next to him was a huge fellow, who from the soles of his boots to the tip of his Pickelhaube must have been at least seven feet. Following them came four more men. All had the steely, determined eyes and the easy, precise movements of veterans. Even from a distance Willoughby could see they wore no insignia, not even the man who was so obviously their officer.
Crawford was staring too.
“Is that them?” Willoughby asked.
Crawford nodded and took a step forward.
A hand grasped his shoulder. Major Thompson.
“Steady,” Thompson said, and strode towards the German raiding team. Willoughby and Crawford fell in behind him. Within a few steps Black and Fisher caught up. The Germans came right for them, each man sizing up the others. No weapons were visible. Willoughby wasn’t fooled.
“Spirit of the season, gentlemen,” Thompson said under his breath.
As they came within ten yards of each other, both teams stopped as if by some unspoken accord. Thompson and the German officer met in the middle. Just beyond them lay a dead body. Covered as it was by mud and frost, it was impossible to tell the color of the uniform. It lay curled in one itself, facing neither trench.
“Hello,” Thompson said. “I’m afraid my German is a bit rusty.”
“Hello, it is no matter,” the German replied in precise, heavily accented English. “I studied for a time in London.”
Both men paused. The German came to attention and saluted. Thompson returned the salute half a second later. They shook hands. They took their time letting go.
With a slow, clear movement, Thompson reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“Smoke?”
“Ah, Woodbines! I have missed them. I always smoked them in London.”
“Take the packet then.” Thompson handed it to him.
“That is most kind.”
Both men were still stiff as if at attention, sizing each other up and not taking their eyes off one another. The German officer reached into his pocket and brought out a gold cigarette case. He emptied it of its contents and offered them to Thompson.
“A very nice brand called Sultan’s Delight, from our Ottoman allies.”
“Most kind of you.”
Crawford muttered under his breath to Willoughby. “Bit awkward, innit? They’re like a pair of marionettes.”
Willoughby wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the holiday, or the foolish urge he had felt ever since the doctor had asked him if he were fit for service. Perhaps it was all three, but he found himself striding forward with the bottle in his hand.
The two officers turned to him. He snapped out a salute.
“Would you and your men like some Scotch?” he asked in German.
The officer gave a little smile, turned and called out the question in German to his team. The big brute who seemed to be his second in command roared out his approval and waved a bottle of schnapps over his head.
“That’s more like it!” Crawford called out.
Within moments the two groups had mingled. Suddenly everyone was exchanging cigarettes. A couple more bottles magically appeared.
The mood, however, was not the same as it was with the first gathering. These were not anonymous members of the opposing army, distant figures now turned into friendly faces. They had met in close combat, and both sides had lost comrades. That they would meet again, no one was in any doubt.
Willoughby found himself translating for his friends. He noticed one German fellow, smaller than the rest and with an air of education about him, spoke only in German but appeared to be listening attentively when people spoke in English.
Crawford had paired up with the giant German, his five-and-a-half foot frame looking like a child’s next to the seven-foot brute. Neither spoke the other’s languag
e but they were getting along just fine with the universal language of tobacco and alcohol.
Smoke hung everywhere. He found the Germans’ cigarettes, with their Turkish tobacco, made him cough even more than regular cigarettes.
Bloody hell, he thought, waving his hand in front of his face. It’s like they’re trying to kill us with poison fumes.
Lunch came. Neither side seemed inclined to go back to their trenches so the food was brought to the men brave enough to meet in the middle. Willoughby got to have sausage and sauerkraut while the Germans ate some of their bully beef.
Theirs wasn’t the only group sitting together. Looking to either side, he could see several other groups spread out along the line. Most men stayed in their own trenches, however, although the pluckier ones sat on the parapet. The more practical busied themselves clearing bodies from No Man’s Land. He saw Captain Dickson commanding one burial party, doing his share of carrying the dead. Willoughby’s estimation of him rose a little.
Once lunch was finished, someone in the group next to them produced a football. Soon a dozen Englishmen and Germans were kicking it around, laughing and slipping on the frosty ground.
The little German who pretended he didn’t speak English leapt up.
“Let’s play a proper match!” he urged his comrades in German.
He gave a significant look to a sly-looking fellow Black had been keeping an eye on. The fellow nodded and they gathered up a few more people. Black grabbed Crawford.
“It’s the Kings versus the Kaisers, lad. I hope you kick better than you drive.”
“I’d kick you right in the arse if you weren’t on my side.”
Willoughby hoped no one called on him to play. He was having too good a time to make a fool of himself.
Both teams started to gather, made up mostly of the two raiding parties. Greatcoats were used to mark out two goals, the English goal near their own trench and the German goal near theirs.
Willoughby smiled when he noticed that No Man’s Land was only slightly longer than a football pitch.
Then he noticed something else. If the English got a goal, they’d get a good look at the German trench, and vice versa.
Nothing had been said, but the sharper minds on either side had set this up.
Major Thompson and the German officer stormed forward.
“Nein! Nein!”
“None of this, gentlemen,” Thompson said.
“It’s just a kickabout, sir,” Black protested.
“It’s unsportsmanlike,” Thompson said.
“Unsportsmanlike? I haven’t even committed a foul yet,” Black muttered.
The German officer spoke to his own men.
“We’re not going to sour this Christmas with this sort of thing.”
The giant German laughed. “But they want to, sir!”
“I forbid it, and so does their officer. We’ll see their trench soon enough.”
The men shrugged and the game broke up. Soon everyone was back to drinking and smoking. From the distance, carols in both languages floated over the cratered ground.
It was getting late and it would be dark soon. Willoughby realized they had spent most of the short winter’s day together in No Man’s Land. Soon it would be time to go back to their respective trenches.
Willoughby turned to the small, intelligent looking man. The fellow studied him, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“Nice try with joining that football match,” Willoughby said in English. “Too bad our commanders called it off.”
“Nicht verstehen,” The German replied, putting on a poor imitation of a confused expression.
“Yes, you understand. I suspect you wouldn’t have been able to get through our defense in any case. I was never very good at games myself. Good at lessons, though, and my tutors told me I have a natural ear for languages. Did they say the same to you?”
“Nicht verstehen.”
Willoughby’s voice grew softer. “It’s strange. I never thought I’d be good at this. Just look at me. But I’ve led several raids on you chaps and they’ve all succeeded, more or less.”
The German didn’t reply. He was meeting Willoughby’s eye now.
“Perhaps it’s the same with you. In fact, you remind me of a chap in our Anglo-German Society at Oxford. He was a foreign student from East Prussia. Bright fellow. Always sat in the same section of the Bodleian Library as I did. I suspect he’s somewhere on the line with you chaps now. I could tell you his name but perhaps I shouldn’t. The thing is, it could have been you sitting in the Bodleian or chatting about history at our weekly meetings over drinks at the Eagle and Child. Pity we’re not there now.”
The German reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small brass object. Willoughby blinked when he saw it was a tie pin. Even more, it was a King’s College tie pin.
Oh Lord, a Cambridge man. That makes it easier, I suppose.
The German presented it to him. Willoughby took it and paused. What could he give him back? He rummaged around his pockets and could only find his pocketbook. Opening it up, he spotted a postcard his sister had sent him showing Magdalen College.
“Here. Compliments of that other university.”
The German grinned.
Major Thompson’s voice rang out. “We should get going.”
Willoughby noticed it was getting dark. The German officer started collecting his men.
“Well,” Willoughby said to the German who had studied at Cambridge. “I suppose this is good-bye. Or at least, ‘until next time’. I don’t suppose I’ll get a good-bye in English, will I?”
The German smiled again. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his comrades heading back to the trench, the officer well out of earshot. He turned back to Willoughby, extended his hand, and in clear English without a trace of an accent said two words.
“No hatred.”
Willoughby shook his hand.
“Never,” he replied.
From a Christmas feast, a warm hearth, and gifts to. . .this.
I’m where I belong.
The German turned and followed his comrades back to their trench.
“Oi, Willoughby!” Crawford called. “You going to stand out here all night?”
“I’m coming.”
He, too, was the last of his side to leave. As he strolled back to the trench, he knew why he hadn’t asked to stay in England. Not for this, of course, he could have never predicted this. No, he had come back to spend Christmas with Company E. And it had served a purpose. They had met the other raiding party and he had learned a little bit about them. Like what their men were like, and the fact that they hadn’t glanced at the observation trench the entire time, showing they knew all about it. And the fact that one of them could speak English without an accent, like he could speak German like a native. That sort of knowledge about the other raiding party would be useful.
He knew that if he survived the war this Christmas Day ceasefire would turn into the stuff of legend. That abortive football match would take on epic proportions. The numbers of men coming out of the trench would grow from companies to entire battalions. And few would remember the sly looks and attempts to get closer to each other’s trenches. The war had paused for breath, but had never left their minds.
Wouldn’t it be grand, though, if this lasted? If a Christmas in No Man’s Land would stop the war?
But he knew it wouldn’t. There probably wouldn’t be any firing tomorrow, and little the next day. But the day after that? No, it wouldn’t last to the day after that. It would be back to the war then.
Back to what he was good at.
At least he would have his friends with him. At least he could help them get through another day. Back home he was loved, but not needed. Here it was different.
Night was gathering quickly now. He reached the parapet of the trench and sat down on it. He looked over his shoulder at the German trench and waved.
“Come on Willoughby,” Black said. He sat not far off, his
face illuminated by the soft glow of Fisher’s spirit stove. All his friends were gathered around it. “Stop consorting with the enemy and have a cup of tea. We have some schnapps for it.”
Willoughby jumped down into the trench and joined his friends.
Follow more adventures of Company E in the first two books in the Trench Raiders series: Trench Raiders and Digging In. Book Three, No Man’s Land, is due out in April of 2015.